


Icarus

by jo2ukes



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Healing, Nonbinary Character, Other, because that's what v and vanderwood deserve okay, mentions of self harm, pain gives way to happiness, spoilers for the after endings, this is an au but there's def spoilers!!!!, welcome to headcanon city
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 17:55:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8855257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jo2ukes/pseuds/jo2ukes
Summary: The sun was too bright, too beautiful. She blinded him to the wax dripping off his wings. He didn’t realize that beautiful things, too, could be deadly. That beautiful fool fell in love with the wind beneath his wings.





	

A bright white light.

A steady beeping.

His arms feel tired. He can hardly make out any shapes in the room so he closes his eyes again, slipping back into darkness.

He faintly hears a voice frantically calling for a nurse.

His body aches.

-

Icarus flew too close to the sun. Oh, you fool.

You beautiful _fool_.

They say it was his pride, his confidence in himself, his haughty decision to ignore the warnings.

And maybe it was all of those things.

But maybe from his prison on that island the sun was a sign of hope. Maybe the sun meant more to him. She was freedom. She was beauty—her brightness blinding him, spellbinding him, calling to him.

She was too bright.

The sun was too bright, too beautiful. She blinded him to the wax dripping off his wings. He didn’t realize that beautiful things, too, could be deadly.

Icarus fell.

You beautiful fool.

-

Vanderwood hasn’t left his side since the moment he woke up. It was a bit of a surprise—V hadn’t expected anyone to come and visit him. He honestly hadn’t expected to even _make_ it here. Alive.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” they tell him lightheartedly. But V knows it’s true. Though, he doesn’t know if he’d consider it luck. He doesn’t quite know what to feel—it would have been easier if he’d died. For everyone.

“How long was I out?” He asks.

“You were barely conscious when we brought you in with Saeyoung,” Vanderwood says. “After your surgery you didn’t wake up. We… _I_ wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” he gives a small laugh. “But after two days you woke up. You’re a tough bastard, you know that?”

He laughs along, touched that this person who barely knows him, who hasn’t had the misery to be touched by his pain, is here with him. It’s almost like a fresh start. Vanderwood is the calm breeze caressing him before he has to face the stormy consequences of his failures and broken consequences. He’s glad to have _someone_.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

The nurse tells him Vanderwood even stayed by his side before he woke up. They’ve spent sleepless nights pacing, reading, flitting into Saeyoung’s room for brief moments before coming back to V. They always come back to V. She says they’re very fussy, but she can tell they must care quite a lot.

-

What went through Icarus’ mind as he fell?

Did he even realize that the sun, in all her majestic beauty, was really the one that contributed to his downfall? Or did he, too, blame himself, shielding the sun from all guilt, allowing others to see her as that same hopeful symbol he knew her to be? Wouldn’t he have been guilty, if he didn’t bear the responsibility?

Icarus would have been the man who destroyed the sun.

It was better to plunge into the watery depths, to have the breath pulled from his lungs, to have his skin seared by wax than to destroy the sun.

He was just a man. And she was the sun.

Oh, you fool. Shouldn’t you have known you couldn’t touch the sun? Even if you thought she loved you enough in return, even if you accepted that her love would burn and blind, shouldn’t you have known?

You beautiful fool.

-

The doctors tell him he may never walk again.

It’s just another weight on his shoulders. He doesn’t mind too much. It makes it easier not to trip on things if you’re confined to a wheelchair, and he can see well enough to navigate around in that.

Still, everyone seems to have more faith in him than he does in himself. The doctors put him in physical therapy.

“Just in case,” they tell him.

It’s hard. He hates it. He’d rather just give up, he’d rather not walk at all, but his therapist says he’s doing well.

He’s sweating, more out of frustration than anything, as he lies on his back.

“Just try to move your foot,” his therapist says, her voice a soft dulcet tone. “Focus on one foot. You’re stronger than you think. Just think about how much willpower it took to get here,” she croons.

But she doesn’t know.

It didn’t take any will power to be here. He doesn’t want to be here. He keeps dreaming of paradise at night—the one he promised he’d meet Rika in. Not a grimy basement cell filled with screams of inmates being injected with drugs or beaten, not a grand mansion littered with banners emblazoned with eyes that always made you feel like you were being watched. Not a paradise where Rika was Savior, but a paradise where they were equals.

Where she could feel happy again.

But instead he’s here. Trying to move his ankle and trying to keep phantoms at bay.

When he’s unsuccessful and eventually allowed to return to his room, Vanderwood is there waiting for him.

“How did it go?” they ask.

“About as well as could be expected,” V laughs. “I couldn’t move my feet. I could barely wiggle my toes.” He doesn’t let Vanderwood hear the pain in his voice.

“You’ll get there,” they say, helping him back into his hospital bed. Their arms are slender, but surprisingly strong. How does everyone manage to be so positive, so hopeful for him? Can they tell he’s running out of hope for himself? He feels so useless. His pain, his immobility doesn’t matter so much to him, but it’s sure to be a disappointment to everyone else. They believe in him and if he fails, it’s just another way to let them down.

“How’s Saeyoung?” he asks, changing the subject. His suffering isn’t the important thing. It’s to be expected. It’s deserved. He mostly feels guilty that the couldn’t protect the RFA—his little family. They’d all gotten hurt in some way because of him and Saeyoung had ended up in a hospital bed too.

“He got discharged last night,” Vanderwood hums. They walk over to their chair, digging through their bag. It must be packed full—V can hear the shuffling of papers and the clattering of small objects against each other.

“I brought you something,” they say, finding what they were looking for at last. It’s small. Potted. V reaches out with his fingers to feel it, but Vanderwood pulls the pot back.

“Oh I wouldn’t,” they laugh lightly, guiding V’s fingers away gently. They’re not wearing their gloves today. Their touch is soft. Comforting. V finds himself blushing at his eagerness, grateful Vanderwood stopped him.

“It’s a cactus,” they explain, “Saeyoung mentioned once that you liked them. I know people usually bring bouquets of flowers in situations like this, but, I dunno. This just seemed more fitting. Cacti are tough little bastards, and you’re a tough bastard too.”

V can hear the smile in their voice. Tough bastard became Vanderwood’s unofficial nickname for him. He liked it.

“I’m grateful that you thought of me,” he smiles.

He’s gotten used to their harsh language. It never bothered him, per se, it was just something he had to accustom himself to. Swears never felt dirty when they poured from Vanderwood’s lips. He likes the way Vanderwood’s accent makes the curses sound, as though even the harshest words are poetry pouring gently from their tongue. There’s something so carefree about the way they speak.

V could listen to them for hours.

And some days he does. Vanderwood is willing to keep him company, to fill his lonely hours with nothing but stories and the sound of their voice.

“I don’t know much about cacti,” Vanderwood continues, placing the potted cactus on V’s bedside table. They fidget with the placement, trying to put it at the perfect angle—though it doesn’t matter much to V, it’s all a general blur anyway. He’s touched all the same.

“The clerk was trying to tell me all this information about different cacti and how to care for them and which ones were the hardest to kill, but I was kind of in a rush to get back so I just grabbed one.”

“It was kind of you,” V laughs, reaching out his hand. Vanderwood accepts it, holding his hand softly in theirs.

-

Vanderwood goes home at nights now. V insisted. They can’t sleep comfortably in hospital chairs, there’s no way. Despite their protests that they’re used to little sleep and they want to be able to help him with whatever he needs, he assures them he’s fine. He’s on the mend and they’ve shown him far more kindness than he deserves.

When night falls, he regrets sending them home, but only because his mind is laden with thoughts of Rika. He misses her, wonders what happened to her… hopes she’s safe.

He lays on his back in silence, listening to the hushed voices of the night duty nurses, the faint snores of other patients across the hall, the quiet beeps of EKGs scattered throughout different rooms. His world is always so noisy.

He regrets sending Vanderwood home. Their voice quiets all the noise.

He holds his hand in front of his face, bringing it close to his eyes so that he can clearly make it out. His palm tingles when he thinks of Vanderwood and the kindness they’ve shown him. They have no reason to. And, quite frankly, V’s not sure he deserves it. He remembers the way Vanderwood’s skin feels against his. How funny it was that they didn’t wear gloves today. Though maybe it wasn’t all that odd. Maybe they just felt like changing things up.

The gentle tingles on his palm are so different from the sensations he’s used to feeling. He’s used to sharp pricks, gashes, dull thuds, aching jabs. Short, strong strings of pain. Pain that blossomed into pleasure because he knew that the pain he felt was pain he was preventing others from feeling. He misses that feeling.

He misses feeling useful. Even if he never succeeded. Even if he never managed to help Rika find real happiness…

He glances over at the cactus Vanderwood brought him, pushing himself to an upright position in his bed and grabbing it from the table.

Is she hurting wherever she is now?

He pushes his hand into the spines of the cactus, a familiar feeling replacing the one Vanderwood left on his skin. Gentle tingles turn into sharp pricks.

 Sharp pricks.

Sharp pricks and scarlet.

He sees flashes of blonde hair, hears echoes of a laugh that he hasn’t heard in years. Laughter has been long absent from his life. He sees green eyes, shining and hopeful. Green eyes, dull and dead. He hears soft whispers. Kind words. He hears deafening screams. Harsh words. He can taste Rika’s fear on his tongue the same way he used to be able to taste her joy. She made his skin gently tingle once.

Sharp pricks.

He keeps pushing his hand into the cactus.

Sharp pricks and scarlet.

Wherever she is, if she’s hurting, he wishes he could take her pain from her. Would she still love him if he could take her pain?

Sharp pricks and scarlet and Rika on his tongue.

-

When the nurse comes in the morning, she’s shocked to find all the cactus spines in the palm of his hand, the dried blood against his skin. She asks why he didn’t call someone for help, attributing the injury to his poor eyesight.

He smiles and tells her he doesn’t want to be a bother.

As she plucks the cactus spines from his hand and washes the blood away, he asks that she not mention this to Vanderwood, should they visit today.

He doesn’t want to be a bother.

-

Does Icarus relish in the burning wax from his fiery wings? Does it remind him of the sun he can no longer see after she’s left his eyes blind? Does each drip searing onto his skin remind him of the bliss he knew when he could look into the sun and taste freedom?

Does he hope his skin is scarred so that he’ll have a constant reminder of his failures? A constant reminder of the one thing in his life that was so bright, that showed him hope and happiness that he didn’t know he was capable of possessing?

Does Icarus hope that his pain, his fall, will save others? That no one will know the pain he’s experienced, that he can shoulder it for the world and serve as an example?

Does he hope, in some wildly twisted way, that this pain will be his alone? That the wax burning into his skin and the sensations it sends through him—the way it makes him grit his teeth and claw at the air in vain—the sun can share with him and no one else?

Does Icarus, does that beautiful fool, still wish—even as he’s falling, a fiery, burning shell of a man—that he can be with the sun?

-

“I could use some fresh air, too, if you don’t mind,” V suggests timidly.

Vanderwood wheels him out of his room, calling to a nearby nurse, telling her they’re headed to the roof for some air. Vanderwood seems bristly, seems rough, but they’re such a genuine person. They’re caring. Stubborn when they need to be. Attentive.

 In the month that V has been stuck in his hospital room, Vanderwood has made friends with all of the nurses. All of them.

And so the nurses let Vanderwood get away with what other visitors can’t. They sneak in gifts for V, special foods or decorations for his room, they take him on trips to the roof even though patients aren’t really allowed up there.

The nurses are always going on about how Vanderwood said this, complimented them on that. How Vanderwood is so thoughtful and how V is lucky to have someone like that in his life. The nurses assume the two of them are closer.

V feels a little guilty that they aren’t.

Vanderwood lights a cigarette, leaning against the rooftop railing. They’ve pushed V’s wheelchair close to the edge so that he can see the cityscape and the traffic and bustle of life below.

They take a puff, and V watches the smoke billow out from between their lips like something natural. Like the steam from a volcano. He watches the smoke curl out, carried away by the wind. He watches as parts of Vanderwood’s face are obscured by smoke. A beautiful metaphor. V would have liked to snap a picture, to immortalize the image. Having been an agent like Saeyoung, they’re in the habit of being secretive. V never prods when sometimes Vanderwood’s stories stop just before the climax—out of habit, they assure him. Vanderwood doesn’t tell him everything. Just bits and pieces, but it’s all beautiful.

Even though V can’t make out the details, he knows every portion of Vanderwood’s face is as beautiful as the whole.

Every part of Vanderwood is as beautiful as the whole. Secrets and all.

“We should go somewhere,” Vanderwood muses quietly. “Aren’t you sick of this stuffy hospital?”

“A little,” V laughs, pretending his heart doesn’t leap at the idea of escaping. He feels cooped up. Hopeless. He needs to be back among the life of the city before his own life drains out of his veins. “But I don’t think I’m allowed to leave.”

“Well, it just so happens that the new Vanderwood is a rule breaker,” they smile, taking another long puff. “And I say to hell with the rules.”

To hell with rules. To hell with restrictions. To hell with hallways that stink of germ-x and smell of pain.

To hell with rules. That’s the reason Saeyoung is alive. That’s the reason Saeran is alive. That’s the reason V is alive. Because Vanderwood said to hell with the rules. Because Vanderwood’s gentle grace was there for all of them.

To hell with rules. A new path to freedom is laid at his feet.

A breeze blows past, carrying the smoke far away and bringing an odd clarity to Vanderwood’s face. V wishes, for the first time in a long time, that he could see.

“I think I know just the place to go,” Vanderwood flicks their cigarette to the ground, stomping on it and dousing the ashes. More smoke curls up into the air. They tighten their ponytail with one hand before assuming control of V’s wheelchair once more. “Do you trust me?” they ask, their voice filled with mischief.

V nods, feeling a laugh bubble in his throat as Vanderwood practically runs, pushing his wheelchair at full speed. The laugh feels foreign in his throat. Dusty. Like a language he’s forgotten. Laughter was once his mother tongue, but he was forced to forget it when he agreed to carry pain. Laughter was replaced with the language of sorrow.

But it’s all coming back to him. And he likes the way it feels on his tongue, the sweetness brushing away the bitterness he’s held inside for so long.

They run through halls, ride down elevators, somehow manage to slink into the parking garage, stifling their laughs.

V has been making progress with his physical therapy. His legs still have limited movement, but he can stand for brief periods of time. He’s learning how to stand again now that the weight of the world has been taken off his shoulders. And Vanderwood is there with him, holding him up when his own legs give out.

Vanderwood has borrowed one of Saeyoung’s cars. They swear they asked for permission, but V almost doesn’t care.

To hell with the rules.

He asks where they’re going, but Vanderwood insists it’s a surprise.

“My lips are sealed,” they say with a finality, drawing the imaginary zipper across their mouth. V laughs again and he feels so full.

The car is silent as they drive through Seoul, but it’s a comfortable silence. A free silence. V unrolls the window of the car, feeling the breeze on his skin, breathing in the smell of exhaust and street food—a cacophony of scents—breathing in the smell of life.

-

At what point in his fall did Icarus get pulled back to reality? Who saved him from his obsession with the sun?

Oh, poor, hypnotized fool.

As he fell, did he feel resigned to his fate? He had lost his faith in the gods. He had forgotten there was a world outside his pain. There was a world outside the brilliance of the sun and it was just as bright and beautiful as he had imagined the sun to be.

He put that beautiful sun up on a pedestal because it was the only part of the outside world he could see from that island, from behind those walls of the labyrinth.

She gave him warmth when he was only surrounded by cold walls. She gave him warmth when there wasn’t another warm thing in sight, in reach.

He grew wings to fly to her, ignoring the rest of the world.

And maybe his fall was the best thing that could have happened to him because somewhere, on his way down, he woke up.

He was mourning the loss of his beautiful sun, mourning because it hurt to be with her, and their time together was so short.

She was his source of light and warmth when there was no light and warmth.

But now that he is free, light and warmth is all around him. He just has to look in the right places.

Oh, you beautiful fool.

-

“To be honest, it doesn’t make much sense to me,” Vanderwood folds their arms. V laughs. “Don’t laugh,” they slap his shoulder playfully.

There’s no sharp pricks. Their touch always leaves behind gentle tingles.

“I’m not an art person! That’s your department,” they smile.

“Describe it,” V asks gently. He can see the general shapes. The colors. The composition. It’s beautiful, but he wishes he could see it more clearly.

“There’s just snow,” Vanderwood says. They lean forward, closer to the photograph as though distance is what’s keeping them from understanding the photo. “You can kind of see the rocks of the mountains peeking up underneath, and there’s two flowers sticking up from the snow.”

V hums, painting the picture with his mind.

This trip to the gallery is different than any other trips he’s taken before. He could always see before. His experience in viewing art was individual. Sometimes, when he went with Rika, he would ask for her thoughts, letting her philosophical observations wash over him.

Art is now a two-person task for the most part. He was never sure that he’d set foot in a gallery again, not with things the way they were. Galleries were his place to share with Rika, almost like a second home to them. But she stopped having time for galleries and his photographs around the same time her words turned to knives.

“And what do you feel when you see it?” He asks Vanderwood, adding, “Besides confusion?”

Vanderwood is silent for a moment. They bring their fingers up to their lips, pale skin running across pink flesh. V watches them. Vanderwood is a new beginning. They’re with him every step of his new beginning and maybe the two of them can make a second home in galleries too.

Their experiences can paint over the ones V shared with Rika.

“Life,” they say at long last. “Not just survival, but life.”

V smiles, taking Vanderwood’s hand in his own.

“I think you’re exactly right,” he says. “You’re good at this art stuff after all,” he laughs.

Gentle tingles.

-

V has been out of the hospital for two months. He’s back in his old apartment. Life isn’t back to the way it was, but that’s one of the things he finds he’s most grateful for.

Jumin was the first to forgive him. He never really doubted his childhood friend in the first place. V’s eyes are opened to how blessed he is to have a friend like that. He’s always been grateful for Jumin, but now that he has a chance to start over, his heart feels especially full. They’ve fallen into the routine of grabbing drinks on weekends when they’re free.

Zen didn’t know the truth about Rika, couldn’t be mad at V only because he didn’t have the whole picture. Their friendship fell easily back into place as well—Zen graciously reserving front row seats for V and his new plus one. V clapping loudly at performances that moved him to tears.

Jaehee didn’t take long to warm back up to him. She admitted she was reluctant to distrust him in the first place, and even apologized at the same time he did. She didn’t have anything to be sorry for, he assured her. He was ever grateful to her for taking such good care of his friends. He was grateful for the chance they now have to truly get to know each other.

Yoosung is Yoosung. He’s naïve and doesn’t understand a lot about the way the world works. He didn’t know the truth either, so the fault isn’t really his and V can’t blame him. He’s warmed up to V ever so slightly, though a tension still sits in the air. And the fact that Yoosung’s first reaction upon seeing V was to pull him into a tight hug means that things aren’t irreparable between the two of them. V isn’t quite ready to talk about Rika and it’s just as well, because Yoosung isn’t either. They both know she’s alive somewhere and that they’re ready to start over with each other. That’s good enough for the time being.

Saeyoung and Saeran are reunited and V feels some sort of peace every time he sees them together. Saeran still has a lot of healing to do, so many years of hurt to untangle from his thoughts and his being. Some days are better than others. The two of them have apologized to each other and a weird bond is re-forged between the two of them—each feeling guilty for destroying the others’ life and feeling an odd sense of obligation to help the other get their life back. V keeps his distance, not wanting to hinder the process.

Saeyoung hasn’t forgiven him completely. These things take time, and V knows this better than anyone. They all have their healing to do and he won’t rush Saeyoung. But he sees happiness in Saeyoung’s eyes again, he sees the kind intent behind Saeyoung’s texts—the reminders to keep up with his physical therapy, the time he takes to fill V in on parts of the members’ lives that he might have missed, the one-time photo of Elizabeth that he took after sneaking into Jumin’s penthouse.

The RFA has fallen back into its rhythm, but it’s a new rhythm. A livelier one. A more open one. They’re not choking on secrets. They’re in the open, freely exchanging breaths. They’re a family.

But the best change in V’s life is one person.

-

“Ah, shit, I think I’ve burned it again,” Vanderwood swears from the kitchen. They’ve certainly burned whatever they’re cooking and V does his best to stifle a laugh. He hears dramatic footsteps coming his way, Vanderwood flinging themself onto the couch and draping themself across his lap.

“I’m hopeless,” they cry, in mock dramatics. “A sham!”

V runs his fingers through their long hair.

Vanderwood has been a constant in his new life. A permanent fixture. Fussy, but kind and gentle. Encouraging, but never forcing him to carry a burden on his shoulders, instead offering to help shoulder his load.

They read poetry to him in his last days at the hospital. They helped him move back into his apartment. They always accompany him to new exhibitions, they’re his go-to plus one for Zen’s shows. They return to Saeyoung’s apartment in the evenings when they’re done fussing over him, but V’s mind still buzzes with thoughts of them long after they’re gone.

They wear a different perfume or cologne every day, leaving different lingering scents in his apartment.

They leave behind jackets and scarves, V eventually setting aside a space in his closet for their forgotten clothes.

“We’ll go get takeout,” V promises with a smile.

“Not from that place we went to last time, though. It made you sick, remember?” Vanderwood wiggles closer to him, the weight of their head in his lap providing a comforting pressure. V hums, lost in thought.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says slowly, twirling Vanderwood’s bangs between his fingers.

“Oh?”

“We should take a trip,” he smiles looking down at Vanderwood’s face.

“Wait, really?” They’re clearly excited. They once confessed they’ve never traveled outside of South Korea after joining the agency.

For someone who has breathed life back into V’s lungs, who’s taught him about life and experience, reminding him of simple joys he’s long forgotten, it seems the least he can do.

“I want to pick up photography again,” he confesses. He’s been toying with the idea for a while. Vanderwood has noticed him absentmindedly playing with his photography equipment—cleaning and re- cleaning lenses, clicking the shutters on his cameras for no reason other than to hear a familiar sound, lining up shots with his fingers.

They suggested he take up his art again.

“So I can wrinkle my nose at all the photographs you take that I don’t understand,” they tease. And V feels hope again. At least he thinks it’s hope—it’s different than the hope he felt with Rika.

It’s less desperate and more tangible.

Vanderwood smiles.

“I want to travel with my muse,” He presses a kiss to Vanderwood’s nose. “And maybe they’ll even let me include them in some of my silly photographs.”

Vanderwood laughs, sitting up. They cup the side of V’s face with one of their hands, gentle tingles bouncing between his skin and theirs.

“I’d love nothing more,” they say, pressing a quick kiss to his lips.

V always thought philosophical love for another person was what true love was. He thought there was only one person in the world that would see things the same way he does. He thought he lost that person, he thought he failed to protect them.

He realized they were just the darkness before the light. Darkness disguised as light—light that left him blind.

He realizes now that love is actually a tangible thing. It’s the sound of Vanderwood’s laugh, it’s the way they smack their forehead when they realize they’ve forgotten something important, it’s the way they remind him to water his plants, it’s the way they kiss him goodnight on the cheek, it’s the way their fingers feel when they’re laced through his.

V and Vanderwood don’t always see eye to eye. They don’t see the world in the same way. And that’s what makes life so beautiful. Because despite their differences, despite the rules, they found each other.

They understand each other.

V kisses them back, tucking their long hair behind their ear. He loves this closeness.

They both whisper to each other at the same time: I love you. A surprised silence hangs in the air for a fraction of a second. A slight blush creeps across Vanderwood’s cheeks.

They both give in to gentle giggles, overcome with happiness.

Real happiness.

They sit on V’s couch with their foreheads pressed together, laughter and love passing between the two of them.

The promise of a new start filling the air.

-

The myth says that Icarus plummeted to his death. That he never recovered from his love affair with the sun. That his love for her killed him. His proclamations of love for the sun were the last words on his lips as his life was stolen from him. The myth says those are the rules—if you fall in love with the sun, you can’t come back.

You can’t come back, you poor fool. You poor mortal.

To hell with the rules.

With every fiber of his being, the poor fool cries, to hell with the rules!

Icarus rose from his fall. He crafted new wings. Maybe his scars from the sun will always be a part of him and maybe he won’t mind. Because he knew that this time, instead of being entranced by the sun and her beautiful pain, instead of falling in love with philosophical ideas of hope, he was moved by the gentle push and pull of the wind. Supporting him. Encouraging him to use his own strength, but carrying him when he couldn’t carry himself. Pushing him in the right direction. Ever present, even if he couldn’t see it. Its gentle touch ever enveloping him, pressing kisses on his skin, gentle tingles.

Icarus fell again.

But this time it was different.

Icarus fell in love.

That beautiful fool fell in love with the wind beneath his wings.

**Author's Note:**

> I just. Really like the idea of V\Vanderwood and so I had to indulge myself?? 
> 
> ((ofc I had to fall in love with another rarepair))


End file.
